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Proud high walls beaten down,
Towers crumbled and battlements fell;
Now all stood in mourning on the far riverbank-
Watching the bright fires, molten glittery veins,
Of soft hopes and gentle wishes,
Fluttering against the boat of iron and glass.
Tales unfinished inside half-realized dreams,
Pages of trailing words and empty lines,
Lives; stillborn,
Contained, inside the boat of iron and glass-
Burning with an unatural heat inside,
While drifting down the greedy waters.
Red stained fingers within matted hair-
Futile efforts' pain,
Arms aching with the sores of overreach,
"Come back, I am sorry", raspy voice cry,
Seeing so clearly thtough the glass-
The burning pages- time's labor's lost.
------
The conscious shape reality.
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In under the line
